Keen to encounter mysteries, 
we all went to examine the footsteps 
at Gleannamuckla, permanent imprints 
on the grass where during the Land War 
the assassin jumped from the ditch 
after firing the fatal shot.

Remarkable enough in their way: 
two shaggy indentations, 
shaped like snowshoes. But not as ominous 
for our times as the eight spirited stallions 
penned in a small farmyard just nearby 
around a haybarn full of last year’s hay,

forelegs flashing, teeth bared, spoiling 
for a fight. We kept our distance, 
on the safe side of the comforting barbed wire.